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Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Keys

For a few years as a kid in New England, I came home about an hour before my father locked up the retail part of our apple farm to help me with homework. I was a latchkey kid before I knew what that meant, even though we lived in an area which didn’t really warrant locking our doors at all. When you’re surrounded by hundreds of acres of heritage apple trees, you become pretty confident that no strangers will wander into your living room. Even so, we each had a key and made use of it. No use taking a chance, we’d say.

At their core, keys are invitations to come inside, to be initiated and welcomed into a social clique. The giving of a key is a gesture entrusting of our selves, our possessions, and our well-being to another. The taking of that key is an unspoken acceptance that we’ll not break that trust, or at least not ding it too badly.

Years ago, shortly after moving, I entered my little red house in Prairie View and found a small bearded man in my front room. He wore a two-toned grey flannel shirt, heather grey suspenders, and a pair of charcoal grey pants. Despite his seated position in my favorite "Memorex chair," I could tell he was a little person. He confirmed this as he stood, taking his grey wool bowler cap from his knee and clutching it nervously between shaky hands. His eyes were clearly visible and slightly enlarged through his steel rimmed glasses, with bushy grey eyebrows raised with both hope and anticipation. Overall, he gave the impression of a slightly oversized garden Hummel, whom some sketchbook artist had drawn quickly using varying shades of grey markers. I’m slightly color blind, and so was disturbed for two reasons: had my eyes finally given up seeing color altogether, and who was this strange, grey little man?

I would later learn that he was the estranged father of the previous owner’s wife (also a little person, which explained why all of the counters were so LOW when I moved in). He’d been given a key 17 years earlier, before a few poorly chosen words had revoked visiting privileges and cut him off from the life behind what was now my front door. His key still worked, it just didn’t open up the chance he’d hoped for.

As I’m writing this, I’m watching a 1969 performance of Jimi Hendrex playing Red House live in Stockholm. It’s a long video, but at the 5 minute mark, Jimi and the little grey man could commiserate–neither one could open the door they’d hoped to just moments earlier. Jimi got another chance, but I’m not sure if the little guy did. I changed the locks that weekend, blocking the doors each night until I could get to the hardware store and ensure I wouldn’t be surprised by any more tiny visitors.

Jimi Hendrix can be seen performing Red House at the following link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TZeCntatHQ

1 comment:

  1. Keys are fascinating symbols in literature. They symbolize wisdom, understanding and intimacy - keys to the Kingdom, the key to one's heart. Keys offer knowledge and insight...a secret key to the 13 year old girl's diary or a 10 year old boy's treasure box. I have keys that I don't even know what they used to open or if I even own what they do - but I keep them. Keys offer precious potential and hope. Your grey little man knew that.

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